Wincest and Destiel Drabbles
by summercarntspel
Summary: A series of drabbles of the Destiel/Wincest genre based on words from my trusty Random Word Generator!
1. Chapter 1

(Anachronism-Wincest: Dean's POV)

Research sucked. Like, totally sucked.

I mean, sure, I like going to the library and checking out the hot college girls that sometimes lurked around just as much as any other red-blooded American guy, but the whole book thing kind of ruined the appeal.

Now, I knew why it was a bad idea to just shoot or stab or chop first and research later, but that didn't mean I had to like it...

Especially when Sam decided to bring a few of those damn dust keepers back to the motel room and leaf through them while I tried to concentrate on the soft-core Anime porn I had playing on my laptop.

"The watch on this dude..." Sam started his usual babbling, one huge, Gigantor finger stabbing at a picture of what looked like an old-fashioned painting of some poor asshole in a suit, "It seems like it's out of place, man. Almost... It's, like, a full on anachronism."

I looked up and offered Sam my best bitchface, something that I had learned from years of watching him give the same expression to Dad and Bobby and even myself, and paused my video. Now, I usually just ignored his Geekboy-esque college vocabulary, but this word was a little different.

"The hell does that mean?" I asked, grabbing my beer bottle from where it sat next to my laptop and tipping it back, swallowing the bitter liquid before I continued, "Sounds like some kind of dirty fetish, man."

Sam rolled his eyes so hard it looked like it actually might have hurt, running the fingers of one hand through his too-long hair. "It's not, dude. It's just, like, a big word for something that's out of place for the time and setting."

"Hey, thanks for the lesson, professor, but why does that matter?" I asked in a patronizing voice, closing my laptop and setting my chin in my palm, elbow resting on the edge of the rickety table, "You're supposed to be looking for information on the case, kid. Not stuff about your dorky word fetish horseshit."

He just rolled his eyes again and flipped his middle finger up, turning his full attention back to the dusty book being dwarfed by his massive Sasquatch hands.

I bit back the urge to offer some kind of bitchy remark about respecting one's elders, but I simply took another pull from my beer bottle and let the liquid glide down my throat, then opened my laptop back up and started the video again.

I'd consider this battle a win for me, I think.


	2. Chapter 2

(Appetite—Destiel: Dean's POV)

"Dean, I do not believe you understand. I have said many times that I am not feeling any sort of hunger, and I do not desire to eat any of that chicken soup, even if it is from your relatives."

I took a deep breath and screwed my eyes shut, trying my damnedest not to scream. This stupid angel is going to be the death of me...

Who knew falling angels were even able to be taken down by things as stupid as the common cold, anyway? Falling or not, shouldn't they have some kind of thing to prevent that from happening?

Now, I'm not saying the Big Guy made a mistake when he was creating his kids or whatever, but he i did /i and I was the one that was dealing with it now.

"Cas, we've been over this," I explained through clenched teeth, squeezing the can of Campbell's Chicken Noodle tight enough to hurt my hand, "You're sick, man, and your mojo ain't strong enough to fix it, so you have to do it the human way. You're gonna eat this damn soup and drink some damn orange juice and get better so we can move on. Are we clear?"

Castiel just stared up at me from the spot he had claimed on my bed, cocooned in enough blankets to hide the entirety of his body, anything that could have possibly been visible covered by a pair of Sam's obnoxiously large sweat pants and one of my old Metallica shirts. He looked as though he had been out in the cold too long, the tip of his nose and his cheeks flushed a rosy red, lips chapped, and eyes looking even more tired and droopy than usual.

"I do not have any sort of appetite," he repeated for what had to be the fifteenth time since I had gotten back from the store with the medicine and soup and juice I had gotten for him, "Nor do I crave the juice of a citrus fruit."

"I don't give a damn what you crave!" I exploded, tossing the can of soup onto the other bed in the room and setting my hands on my hips, fixing him with the same glare I would give little Sammy when he got sick and bitchy as a kid, "You're going to eat the soup and drink the juice because I'm damn near to my breaking point with your whining ass! Okay?"

His mouth opened and closed a few times, icy eyes looking slightly hurt, and then he let out a soft sigh.

"Fine, Dean."

I managed to flash him a small smirk, handing him the glass of juice I had poured before the most recent bout of arguing started, "Good. Now, you drink that and I'll heat up your soup. You'll be better ASAP, kiddo, I promise."

I turned to the shoddy stove in the room's tiny kitchenette and grabbed a small pot, dumping the can of soup into it and starting to heat it. I grinned to myself, listening to my sick little angel mumble behind me between sips of his juice, whining about not being a "kiddo" and still "not having a darn appetite".

And, really, who wouldn't crack a smile at that?


End file.
